Darker Side of the Flame
by TheGreatElisaMousy
Summary: He wasn't always insane. He used to be a perfectly normal person. But things had escalated, and he doesn't know just how much he can take anymore.


**So, this came about when I realized, there aren't nearly enough fanfictions about the darker side of Pyro's insanity. We see the funny results, but what about what goes on inside his head?**

**Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men Evolution. If I did, there would be a lot more done with the Acolytes, especially Pyro and Gambit.**

He liked to watch them burn.

It was who he was, after all. He was the master of fire, why wouldn't he want to burn anything and everything in his path? Be it items, buildings, or even people these days, he torched them all. By now, all of his reasoning had left him. What was there to stop him?

He wasn't always like this, though.

He used to be fairly sane. He enjoyed the ability to control fire, because he could make it do wondrous things and form fantastic shapes and pictures. It was an art. But everything changed when _he_ came.

_He_ drafted him for a team of people like him, people with special abilities. But as soon as _he_ showed up, his sanity had already started slipping.

He would lose himself in the fire, so to speak. When he trained with the team, he would feel a budding desire to burn everything in his path. It disappeared shortly after, but eventually, it became harder and harder to hide. It came to the point where he couldn't hide it. He found great joy in burning whatever he could, and even began what would become a common thing: his cackling. In his moments of lucidity, he would realize how brutally annoying it was, but in the ever growing moments where he'd lost it, he didn't care. So what if he was annoying them? That made it all the more fun!

His periods of insanity grew longer and longer, while his bouts of lucidity grew fewer and further between. His teammates didn't know him very well, so they thought that he was just impressively bipolar. Why couldn't they see? Could they really not tell the difference between an insane man and a sane one? His condition was far too extreme to be considered just bipolar, but he couldn't bring himself to mention it to them. _He_ would discard him for being weak enough to let himself fall like this. The others… He imagined what they would do. The animalistic one would do worse than _he_ would. He'd probably crush his skull. The Russian may be a bit concerned and try to get him help, but he assumed that help would mean being taken to _him_. And he already knew where that would lead. The Cajun… He never knew what to expect from him. Perhaps he would care, or perhaps he would ignore him. There was no way to tell, because his sane side was too afraid to say anything, and the growing insane side didn't see a need to.

When they fought with _them_, it was his longest loss of sanity yet. It was so bad that he was grinning all the way back to the base they called home, with the occasional cackle, much to the others' annoyance. It wasn't until late that night that he snapped out of it. His eyes had widened in horror. He'd tried to kill _them._ He'd actually tried to kill innocent people. He'd gripped his pillow all night, holding back tears of shame. It was a childish thing to do, he'd told himself, but he should be excused, right? After all, he was losing his mind. It was probably one of the scariest things someone could ever experience. Just losing your mind was one thing, but he had to deal with being insane, and then becoming lucid and facing what he'd done. It was too overwhelming. He'd stayed up all night that night, refusing to sleep for fear that if he fell asleep, this side of him, the side he trusted, would be gone in the morning.

Eventually, he suffered days of insanity, with an hour of sanity in the middle of the night. And this hour was full off terror and despair, for he was beginning to realize that there was no help for him. His mind was falling to pieces. He could only think to blame _him_. He'd been fine until _he_ came along. _He'd_ made him join a team, an _evil_ team, at that, hell-bent on massive destruction. That was just asking for trouble. He honestly didn't know why he accepted. Perhaps that insanity had been with him all along, biding its time and waiting for the right moment to strike. And when _he_ offered _his_ hand, how could the insanity refuse? It was a chance to wreak havoc on the poor, unsuspecting world.

In a moment of lucidity, at 2:30 AM, he sat on his bed, staring blankly at the door. He'd cried out his tears long ago. There was nothing now but the numb feeling of fear left. He'd been 'lost' for over a week, and as the events of said past week played through his head, he whimpered. He'd nearly killed someone the other day… and laughed about it. That was the worst part, was that he thought it was _funny_. The fire he'd created had been destroying the foundation, and thus made a support beam fall, about to crush an innocent bystander. If it weren't for _them_, the mad would have perished. And he would have been fine with that. No guilty conscience. Until now, that is. Now he thought about all of the other things he'd done when he'd lost it periodically. And how had the others not noticed that there was something seriously wrong with him? How had they not seen his spiral downward, his descent into a world that he shouldn't have to suffer through, a world without reason or control? Why did they just put up with it, writing it off as just 'him being him'? His fists clenched around the sheets bundled around him. Maybe the just didn't care.

He'd thought he was getting somewhere with the Russian and the Cajun. Even his insane side had taken a liking to them, though they tried to limit the damage he caused, much to his disappointment. They were supposed to be his friends, weren't they? Then why couldn't they see his suffering and try to help him? Perhaps they had simply met him too late. They hadn't had enough exposure to the real him, the sane him.

He paused. Was the real him really the sane one anymore? Was that who he really was, even though he was insane more often than not? He was supposed to be the master of flame, and yet the 'real him' despised using it for destruction, when that precisely what fire's purpose was, wasn't it?

No, it was created to give warmth and life.

But it takes lives, leaving its victims in the cold, dark clutches of death.

Not if managed properly.

But who ever said he had to manage it properly? Why did he have to act responsibly? Fire was unpredictable and virtually uncontrollable, so why couldn't he be? He and the fire were so similar.

Perhaps that was why he'd taken a liking to it…

No, the destruction was what made it worth it.

His eyes widened. It was happening again. It was creeping up on him, trying to slowly drag him into its clutches. He honestly preferred it when it struck suddenly. He didn't have time to feel the dread of the loss of his sanity and know that there was nothing he could do to stop it. He stood and stumbled out of his room. He had to tell someone, before it was too late. He didn't care how early it was; he needed to let it out. He just had to hope that someone was awake. And he could only pray that it wouldn't be _him_.

He was in luck. Or, as much luck as anyone in his particular situation could have. One of his teammates _was_ up. And it was the Cajun. By now, they'd become friends, and he could thus trust him with this horrible problem.

"I need help…" he whispered quietly.

"What?" the other man asked, startled. He could understand why. It was the middle of the night, and he really only knew him as the cocky bastard who didn't need any help whatsoever.

He knew his eyes were wide with fear, and he could tell by the other man's expression that he was scared, as well. "I'm losing it, Gambit."

The man known as Gambit relaxed and chuckled a little. "We knew t'at one from t'e start, Pyro," he said. "You had Gambit scared for a minute."

"No, I mean I'm _really_ losing it, mate," he whispered, his voice laced with the fear he felt inside. "I… I can't reason anymore… I don't know what I'm doing… I'm going to hurt someone, Gambit. I'm going to hurt one of you."

Gambit searched his face for a long time, looking to see if he was playing some sort of trick. Finally, he realized that he wasn't. "You're not gonna hurt us, _homme_," Gambit said. "You wouldn't do somet'ing like t'at."

"I don't know, mate," he said sadly. "My mind, it's… it's spinning out of control… I don't know how much longer until I'm… you know, gone again."

"We find a way to help you," Gambit said, putting a hand on his shoulder. They were friends, so it was only natural that he'd offer to help, right? Or perhaps it was a lie to get him to leave him alone. He shook his head slightly, trying to rid himself of the insanity. If he could just stave it off a little longer…

"You know what you have to do," he said solemnly, voice cracking from the mental strain of keeping himself lucid. Gambit winced. So he was finally starting to see how bad it truly was, was he?

Gambit nodded, obviously not wanting to do what he had to. He knew he would do it, though. Gambit wasn't an idiot. So when Gambit left the room to get the phone, he was proud of him. He was proud that the man was doing what he had to. It was for the best.

Or was it? Why was he resisting the call of the fire? Why was he resisting the sweet relief of the dancing flames?

No. He had to hold out just a little longer. He had to make it as easy on them as possible.

As soon as Gambit was off the phone, he said, "T'ey be here in ten minutes. Can you hold on 'till t'en?"

"Maybe…" he replied. "Gambit?" he asked after a moment.

"Hm?"

"Will you take… will you take my lighters and my flamethrower and… get rid of them?" The words were getting painful for him to say. The thought of losing his precious fire supply was torturing the part of his mind that was clawing for freedom. They'd better get there soon. He didn't know how much longer he'd be able to hold out.

Gambit nodded. "Course," he replied. "And you get t'e help you need."

"I'll try, mate," he said. "I'll try."

Ten agonizingly long minutes later, Gambit led him to the door as the doorbell rang, waking the other residents of the base. When the men in the white coats entered, the animal-like man muttered, "Finally."

He began fidgeting as they fit him in the straightjacket. He wasn't going to struggle. He was going to stay calm. He had to. He had to make it out to the vehicle, at least. As he was led outside, he took final look at his old home. He didn't know when, or even _if_ he'd be back again.

As the doors to the vehicle were closed, he finally relaxed, letting everything go. And as the men in the white coats drove away with their new patient, a mad cackle rand through the night.


End file.
